


The Little Hiatus

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [24]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Dixon of Dock Green (TV), Petrocelli, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural, The Little Mermaid (1989)
Genre: Alderney, Cornwall, Costumes, Embarrassment, England (Country), F/M, Family, Framing Story, Friendship, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Guernsey, Hampshire, Hotels, Jealousy, Jersey, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, LARPing, Lifeguards, London, Love, M/M, Male Prostitution, Music, Police, Recovery, Relaxation, Servants, Theft, Trains, Victorian, minor character injury, small cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1898. Sherlock helps John recover from his own brush with death as the pair decide to take two whole months away from it all. But first in the sunny Channel Islands and then in remote Cornwall, there are many demands on a consulting detective, including embarrassed lifeguards, holidaying lawyers, broken windows, secretive siblings, greedy hotel-owners and overly pompous monarchs – but none so important to Sherlock as the key task of constantly reducing his resident English city doctor to a happy pile of goo.
Relationships: Eric/Ariel (male), Lancelot du Lac/Arthur Pendragon, Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 12





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanwitch/gifts), [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> All cases in the Little Hiatus are new, but for consistency are still marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1898 **

**Interlude: Lives And Deadlines**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock makes an important decision – one day he will retire_

 **Case 255: The Adventure Of Ariel's Mirror ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_On a sunny Jersey beach, lifeguard Eric Prince has a minuscule problem_

 **Case 256: The Adventure Of The Stolen Reticule ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_American lawyer Anthony Petrocelli requests Sherlock's help in Guernsey_

 **Case 257: A Ridunian Riddle ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Alderney Constable George Dixon poses a problem for Sherlock to solve_

 **Interlude: Sympathy For The Devil?**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock meets what is left of his cousin Luke in Southampton_

 **Case 258: The Adventure Of Hedrek's Divagation ☼**  
by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire  
_John's least favourite Cornish ex-fisherman again asks for help_

 **Case 259: The Adventure Of The Cancelled Booking ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Fame and renown can make some men act less than honourably_

 **Case 260: King Arthur's Hardest Day ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_King Arthur gets a hard lesson under his Round Table_

 **Interlude: Immortalized**  
by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire  
_A Cornish molly-man becomes famous for his huge instrument_

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	2. Interlude: Lives And Deadlines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. Decision Time!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John's recovery from the attack was slow and tortuous, and I suffered terribly if deservedly all through that spring as I faced the prospect that I might still lose him. I was never more grateful to his friend Sir Peter Greenwood, who first sent one of his colleagues and, once he had himself recovered, called in several times each day at a time when I knew that he was very busy, reassuring me that things were progressing well (I knew that someone of his nature would never lie to me like some doctors were wont to do). During that time I took on no cases whatsoever, spending my time sitting on the chair next to his bed. Or in his bed although Sir Peter, smiling far too knowingly, proscribed only limited sexual activity for him, which of course did not improve his mood when he was conscious. I just had to be more inventive.....

This long period of enforced inactivity made me think again that the time to hang up my deer-stalker and enjoy some quality time with my man was now approaching. I would be forty-four later this year and my love was now forty-six. While I still enjoyed my work and I know that John loved working with me, we could not go on until one or other of us dropped. I recalled John's rapture at the beauty of the Sussex Downs back in the Blue Carbuncle Case, and slowly but surely I came to a decision. 

Fifty. I would quit in nineteen hundred and four, on or just after my fiftieth birthday in September. That would give me some six years to find a perfect small cottage somewhere on the Downs where we could retire to, where I could raise bees and we could live as man and... man, far away from the world and all its demands. Randall, God damn him, could make some infinitesimally minuscule step towards an apology by ensuring our anonymity, though I doubted that I could ever forgive what he had done. Had I lost John as a result, then Mr. Alistair Campbell would have had company on his final journey! 

Although I was sure that my over-cologned brother would have poisoned the poor damn fish!

That reminded me; Randall had been transferred back to an English hospital after an Incandescent (Level Eleven) Mother had caught up with him at Dover. Luckily Mr. Godfreyson's brother Harold the tide-waiter had been able to assist in delaying his ferry and had also prevented him from using any other boats to escape the harbour; I sent him an enormous tip for that. The assassin Mrs. Kyndley's offer to 'directly remove' him was looking more and more tempting, discount or no discount, but not until he had recovered – when he would find out the second part of my revenge which was even crueller. And yes, he deserved it!

Mother had long lamented that people on the Continent did not get to suff..... to experience her 'unique' style of writing – incredibly John is coughing in his sleep, the villain! – so I had paid for publishers in Paris, Berlin and Moscow to print collections of her 'best' stories and yes, I shuddered when I thought what the 'worst' might be like! That of course necessitated someone to translate these stories into all those languages, someone who was fluent in French, German and Russian. Someone who would have a lot of time on his hands laid up in a hospital bed for the next few weeks. Someone who had better not come anywhere near me in the next few months in case I decided to end his..... no, that would be unfair. All those foreigners should not be deprived.

Six more years. I gently ran my hand over the chest of the slumbering Adonis in the bed next to me and he rumbled his approval, edging instinctively closer as he slept.

Six more years. It seemed a hellishly long time but I could wait. For the man beside me, I would wait forever. In the meantime I could plot further revenge against a certain lounge-lizard. Come to that, what other languages did Randall have even a basic understanding of.....?

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	3. Case 255: The Adventure Of Ariel's Mirror ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. After the murderous attack by the late Alistair Campbell (see under being useful for the first and last time in his miserable life as fish food), Sherlock takes John for a long break away from it all starting in sunny Jersey and Guernsey. In the first of these they run into a Princely – if rather small – problem.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I do not remember much about that vile Mr. Alistair Campbell's murderous attack on me at Brightlingsea, and what I could recall was confused if not bizarre. Peter reminded me that the human memory often reacted badly to shock, and I might or might not recall more in time although he thought that unlikely. I was just grateful to have come thought it in one piece!

Although I did not have the bruise to prove it I must have hit my head at one point, for I was sure that I had seen _two_ Sherlocks standing before me after the villain had fled the waiting-room. I think my love found it even more traumatic that I did when he confessed to me that he had greatly improved the stock of humanity by removing Mr. Campbell from it; mercifully he was not bound by the maxim 'first do no harm'. Then again if the positions had been reversed, I think that I would have done much the same. I could not afford to make the same mistake that I had made on a London dockside eight years back in allowing such vermin to live. Life was full of difficult decisions like that.

It was not just Peter; I knew despite my frail condition that others had been and still were being a great help. Miss St. Leger of course, and Sherlock's cousin Mr. Garrick who limped into our rooms after what turned out to have been a particularly long and hard session with his lover Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles and the latter's brothers Lloyd and Daniel, then promptly fell asleep on our couch! When he finally came to he was able to give us an update on the vile Randall, whose hospital stay was varied between having to translate all Sherlock's mother's works and the frequent visits by both her and the pest's wife with new ideas to try out on him. I would say how sorry I was for the lounge-lizard, but I do not approve of bare-faced lying so I will not.

By the by, it was not a celebration chocolate cake. It was just some special day or other. Had to be.

It was Peter who suggested to Sherlock the idea of taking me to the sunniest part of our islands in order to get some colour back into me, even though this would involve a long sea-crossing to get to the Channel Isles. We had never had cause to visit them before although there had been the Boulanger Affair (The Adventure Of The French Letters) in the latter days of our war against the vile Moriarty, during which General Boulanger had been living on the island of Jersey when his house had been blown up; fortunately when he had not been inside it at the time. Arrangements were therefore made and we decamped to Waterloo; fortunately the route down did not take us through Alresford near where my son Ivan lived although I naturally thought of him (twelve now!) as we passed into Hampshire. Sherlock had ensured that we had several spare days in a Southampton hotel in case the seas were rough but luckily we were able to sail to the islands immediately,

My love told me that we would spend at least a month in the Channel Islands† and then head somewhere else. He offered me a choice and, somewhat warily, I suggested Cornwall. There were several places in that county that I wished to see, in particular Land's End and the famous Tintagel, one possible site of King Arthur's Camelot, but I knew that the county held an unpleasant memory for him from the Repellent Philanthropist case and the vile Mr. Milton Carew. That he did not even hesitate before agreeing affected me deeply, and I may or may not have sniffed a little. But it was a manly sniff.

Those judgemental silences of his were still annoying, by the way. And I was still handing over at least half of my bacon every morning, recovering patient or no recovering patient!

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Jersey was a lovely place, and it was the first day of June when we arrived so it was pleasantly warm. Our hotel was in the capital St. Helier, and I loved the mixture of English and French cultures in this quirky little place. There was lots to see in this island barely one-sixth the size of the Isle of Wight‡, and I liked the contrast between the quiet coastal villages of the east and south coast, and the more exposed, rougher bays along the west and north of the island. I especially took to the long beach at Vazon on the north coast, so one day we headed there for some sea-bathing.

I must still have been partly in shock after the attack for I had forgotten from our adventure up in the Western Isles (The Adventure Of The Two Clansmen) just what Sherlock in a swimming costume did for me. Seriously, whoever allowed them to design a neckline that would dare to drop that low? Sherlock got several shocked looks from our fellow gentleman bathers and, as if I have to say it, some (far too many) looks that bordered on simpers from all the lady ones. I did not consider myself either attractive or unattractive, but I knew that I was closer to the standardized Victorian ideal of what a handsome gentleman should look like so it was every so slightly irritating that I never got looked at like that.

Sherlock shot me a look. All right, it was bloody infuriating! Harrumph!

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Vazon Beach was a little over a mile long and there were two lifeguard posts along its length with a small hut by one of them where, I presumed, the gentlemen changed before and after work. We had not been there long before four of the men came out in their swimming-costumes (presumably being off-duty as both the posts were manned) and headed down to the sea with a beach-ball. Three were dark-haired and fairly nondescript but the fourth, although not the tallest, was by far the most handsome with long flowing chestnut hair and a lithe, muscular figure. 

I sighed unhappily. The fellow was young enough to be my son.

“He is a pleasure to look at”, said the resident mind-reader whose faculties still seemed to work outside the British Isles, worse luck. “We are not the only ones so to think, it seems.”

He gestured with his eyes to where not far away a dark-haired young fellow in a swimming-costume was sat reading a book, covertly glancing occasionally after the party of young men. They had only gone into the shallows for their larking around but it was clear that the Adonis was far and away the best swimmer.

“The green-eyed monster?” I suggested. The watcher was not ugly but he was markedly ordinary, and of about the same age as the Adonis.

“I think just envy”, he said. “The Good Lord does not always distribute his gifts equably among Mankind.”

_(I was to have cause to remember that particular comment later)._

“At least he gave me you”, I smiled, “even if you do steal my bacon at breakfast every morning.”

“I never _steal_ your bacon!” he said in mock outrage. “You always give it to me.”

Our conversation was interrupted when the reader put his book away, and, to my surprise at least, walked off towards the nearest tower and entered the hut beneath it.

 _“He_ is a lifeguard?” I wondered.

“It is as much nobility of character as strength of body, saving lives in the water”, Sherlock said. “Curious.”

We both went back to our books, although I noted that when the watcher came out to replace the man on duty, he continued to watch the four men playing in the surf. Or at least one of them.

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The following day we returned to Vazon, although Sherlock had had to buy another swimming-costume because.... well, if he would insist on wearing the damn thing in our room then he could damn well pay for the consequences! I was mere mortal man, damnation!

Today the Adonis and the reader from the day before were both on duty, the former at the far tower and the latter at the one with the hut near where we were again sitting. It was another fairly calm day but I knew that the Atlantic tides were strong here, and that the lifeguards had an important job to fulfil.

“Like you filled me last night!” muttered some insatiable sex-maniac who was as bad as ever. I swatted at him.

After about an hour another lifeguard arrived and relieved the fellow who was on duty almost directly above us. The latter came down and wrote something on the board outside the hut, then sighed and turned to go.

“You seem depressed, sir”, Sherlock observed. “Is there anything that we might do to help?”

I had a sudden and horrible image that this might lead to some ghastly murder or other crime that would again threaten one or the other of us. So it was damnably unfair for someone to shake his head at me like that!

“Merry over there”, he said gesturing to where the Adonis had descended his own tower about five hundred yards away and was making his way back to the hut. “Ariel Merriman. You were here yesterday, sirs; you saw him in the water. We were at school together and he was known as 'The Merman'. Best swimmer on the whole damn island!”

Sherlock looked at him sympathetically.

“Is he single?” he asked carefully. The fellow nodded.

“Not for long I'll bet!” he said wistfully. “I'm Eric by the way, Eric Prince. We used to be sort of friends but ever since he took this up – he started before me though we're both twenty-three – he has been with the fellows out there all the time.”

His attitude surprised me somewhat, as I knew from the social pages (which I had just happened to have glanced at on the odd day since arriving here) that the Princes were one of the principal families on the island, and indeed distantly related to the Queen or the Duchess of Normandy as she was called here. As she and they were descended from the old Norman dukes who had once owned these rocks, that also made this fellow a distant cousin of someone not far away _who was going to get left behind here if he carried on smirking like that!_

“You never know”, Sherlock said, with an innocent expression that I did not believe for one moment. “Do you live near here, sir?”

“We both live at Carteret, along the coast”, he said. “I had better be getting in sirs; he will be here soon.”

“One moment”, Sherlock said.

He pulled out a notepad from our basket and wrote something quickly on it, then handed it to the gentleman. The fellow looked puzzled but nodded, then we all left.

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About fifteen minutes later during which some teasing bastard refused to tell me what had been on that note, Mr. Ariel Merriman came out of the hut. Even wearing everyday clothes he was clearly an exceptional example of Mankind, and I could see why Mr. Prince might think him 'out of his league' so to speak. Some people were just born beautiful.

How Sherlock managed to catch me looking at him as I thought that, heaven only knows. At least I did a manly blush.

“You must be Mr. Merriman”, Sherlock said as the fellow walked past us towards the exit from the beach. 

He looked at us in surprise.

“Do I know you, sirs?” he asked politely.

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“It concerns Mr. Prince”, he said, looking meaningfully at the Adonis.

I do not know why but the fellow blushed fiercely for some reason. 

“What about him?” he asked, far too defensively I thought.

“The gentleman who you spent much of the morning watching through your binoculars? Sherlock asked dryly. 

For a tanned fellow he managed to turn quite a bit redder.

“Sir, that is my business”, he said frostily. “There can be nothing between Eric and myself, not ever.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked. “Gentlemen may have friends who are rather more than friends, provided they are discreet about it.”

Once again I was to see Sherlock use his power to get people to open up to him. I was sure that the young fellow was set to just walk away but Sherlock's gaze held him in place. He looked around uncertainly then beckoned us to follow him back into the hut where he went into the same office that Mr. Prince had gone into earlier. That he locked the door behind us alarmed me somewhat, but Sherlock seemed calm about it.

“You want to see why I can never have Eric?” he asked almost angrily. “This is damn well why!”

He stripped back out of his clothes with clothes with amazing efficiency. His body was indeed muscular and perfectly proportioned, except for....

Oh. Apparently the Good Lord had not been generous in quite _all_ areas.

“Small endowments run in our family”, he said bitterly. “Lord knows how we have not died out over the generations, although that will not be a problem with my inclinations.....”

He was interrupted by the sound of the door-handle turning. I was sure that the fellow had locked it and left the key in, but the key had gone – Sherlock, presumably – and the thing was now open because at that moment in walked Mr. Prince!

“Merry, have you seen my kit-bag....... oh!”

I fully expected Mr. Merriman to make a bid for the window, which might have been just large enough for him to have fitted through. The poor fellow looked horrified and flushed even redder, but then made a clear decision to just roll with it.

“You need a magnifying glass, Eric?” he snorted.

I could see the shock in his face when his fellow lifeguard just shrugged his shoulders.

“So?”, he said.

Mr. Merriman stared at him incredulously.

 _”So?”_ he echoed. “Are your damn eyes working?”

“I knew.”

I honestly thought that Mr. Prince was going to collapse.

“You _knew?”_ he gasped.

“We use the same shower-room”, Mr. Prince said dismissively. “You forget that we have these things called _mirrors_ , not all of which steam up.”

“You _are_ seeing this?” Mr. Merriman demanded, clearly struggling to get a grip on this strange reality.

Mr. Prince grinned.

“Not to worry”, he said. “I'm sure that even if you can't give it much, you can sure take it!”

No man should have ever been able to turn that red!

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“That was what was on the note you have him when he met us outside the hut”, I said. “Telling him to come in so he could catch his friend exposed.”

“Oh doctor, your detective powers _amaze_ me!” Sherlock said, holding his hand to his head in a fake swoon.

I pou.... scowled at him.

“You know what happens to gentlemen who pout”, he said reprovingly.

“I am counting on it!” I grinned.

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I did count on it. All the way to that third orgasm – after which I passed out!

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_Notes:_   
_† Two of three Crown Dependencies that are not part of the United Kingdom as they have their own parliaments; the term Channel Islands only began to be used in the 1830s as it referred to the channel west of the Cotentin Peninsula. They are administered as the Bailiwick of Jersey (the largest island) and the Bailiwick of Guernsey (all the other islands). They are a curious remnant of the old Duchy of Normandy but survived the French takeover of the latter in the early thirteenth century as they were a personal possession of the English monarch. Guernsey, roughly in the middle of the group, is about 75 miles south of the Dorset coast but only 30 miles from the French coast._   
_‡ Or about one-third the size of the District of Columbia in the United States._

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	4. Case 256: The Adventure Of The Stolen Reticule ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. An American lawyer visiting Guernsey from (New) Jersey asks for Sherlock's help, in what seems like an open and shut case of bag-snatching. But few things are what they seem on another island in the sun.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Foreword: The changing English language means once again that a word that was in common usage at the time a story is set has faded into oblivion in the years since. A reticule was what is today (1936) more commonly called a handbag, the latter term then referring to what is today more usually called a 'hold-all'. Rather ironic I would say, as anyone who had seen a lady emptying the multiple dimensions of any bag that she carries will know that it does indeed appear to hold all!

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We had a pleasant time in Jersey before moving on to Guernsey, from which we visited two other inhabited islands that were part of the latter's bailiwick; Herm which I quite liked as I found it very peaceful, and Sark which (perhaps surprisingly) even I found rather too 'tourist-y'. Guernsey was about half the size of its rival; we learned quickly that there was little love lost between the islands as they had been on opposite sides during the English Civil War, and some two and a half centuries had not been enough for feathers to stop being ruffled. We planned to have a week or so here before proceeding to the northernmost island of Alderney, which lay some miles away back towards England. I was of course missing some parts of my native land (particularly Mrs. Malone's excellent bacon) but John was clearly improving under the southern sun and that was more important. Even than bacon.

I was so far gone, it was laughable!

We had a pleasant time on Guernsey in a nice hotel in the capital, St. Peter Port, and I only had to purchase one more swimming costume after John got ever so slightly jealous of another handsome lifeguard on the long western beach at Le Braye, who had looked at me in a way that he had Disapproved of. It was wonderful to go back to the hotel and have him staking his claim on me while very firmly stating how not jealous he was! Indeed we managed to go nearly our whole time there without running into any more cases that needed solving.

Nearly.

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On our last evening we were in our room when a card was send up from a Mr. Anthony Petrocelli with an address in the United States, asking if we might see him over an important matter. From his card he was a lawyer, although whether that had any bearing on his advent I knew not.

“Arizona”, I said. “That is one of the western states, is it not?”

“South-western”, John said. “Close to the border with Mexico. It is apparently much hotter and less humid than the Southern states we went through, and they were unbearable enough.”

We were both silent for a moment, reflecting on the dark events that had followed that trip and the Great Hiatus that had kept us apart for three long years thereafter. I gave the card back to the boy, tipped him and told him that yes, he might send Mr. Petrocelli up.

The American was a fellow somewhere in his forties, plain of features with dark curly hair and an intelligent look about him. _Like so many criminals_ , my unhelpful brain put in. I put that thought aside (for now) and smiled at him.

“How may we be of service, sir?” I asked.

“I'm hoping you guys can do something for a friend of mine who's landed himself in gaol”, he said. “Pete Ritter; he came over with me for a day from Saint-Malo because we wanted to see the Jersey that our own New Jersey is named for†. Unfortunately he got seasick so we decided to pause for a night here before going on.”

“I was not aware that Arizona is anywhere near New Jersey?” John asked dubiously.

“Several thousand miles away, sir”, Mr. Petrocelli said, “but my family were there for a couple of generations before they moved out west. Italian immigrants originally, hence the name.”

He took a deep breath, and smiled as I handed him a drink.

“It all happened in the past half-hour, sir”, he said. “We got to the hotel and checked in, and Pete wanted to use the bathroom so I said I'd take our bags to our room. Nothing special; contrary to what people think they don't pay lawyers the big bucks. We only got this gig because I had to follow someone to Saint-Malo on a case and part of the case meant a day here, otherwise we would normally have headed straight home. Worse luck we didn't as it turned out.”

“Pete had forgotten our room number by the time he was done – head like a sieve! – so he went to the reception desk to ask. There was this broad there and she _claimed_ that he tried to grab her bag....”

“Excuse me for butting in”, Sherlock said, “but what sort of bag are we talking here?”

“What they call a reticule, sir”, our visitor said. “Pete says she tried to force the thing on him; he batted her away then headed off to our room. Few moments later the police arrived and said he'd nicked a necklace out of her bag!”

I stared at him thoughtfully.

“Did he?” I asked.

“Sir!”

“Come come”, I said. “This man was obviously with you in a professional capacity, so he is likely to be one of those 'gentlemen' who perform tasks around and sometimes beyond the edges of the law that lawyers like yourself cannot for obvious reasons. I am sure that even in this small town they must be aware of that. Has he what you Americans call 'form' for this sort of thing?”

Mr. Petrocelli blushed fiercely.

“Yes sir”, he said, staring hard at the carpet. “But he's been straight for years.... well, mostly straight....”

He stopped, blushing even more.

“And the wonders of the telegraphic system mean that the Guernsey Police will soon find that out”, I said. “Ah well.”

I thought for a moment.

“Do you know what happened after your friend left this woman.... what is her name by the way?”

“Mrs. Newbury”, our visitor said. “Rich local women, stuck-up like they all are these days. I was with Pete when they questioned him; she said that after he 'attacked' her she went and sat in the nearby alcove for a couple of minutes, sending her maid back to her room to fetch her some pills.”

“Do you know what for?” John asked.

“Nerves, she claimed”, Mr. Petrocelli said. “Then she went back to the desk to hand in the pearl necklace she had brought down to be put in the hotel safe. When she found she didn't have it, that was when the balloon went up.”

I thought that slightly odd. If this woman was the sort that our client had described, she would surely have worn the necklace down and taken another chance to show it off rather than have carried it in her bag.... damnation, I was becoming as cynical as John!

“Was the necklace in a jewel-case?” my love asked.

“She didn't say”, the lawyer said. “I suppose so; it's not the sort of thing one carries around loose, is it?”

I thought on that for a moment.

“We need to know that fact”, I said. “Can you find out from the police for us?”

“I could”, he said, “but why?”

“Because”, I smiled, “I think that we may be able to help your Mr. Ritter avoid a night in the cells!”

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Mr. Petrocelli went off to find out about the jewel-case and I sent a telegram off to Miss St. Leger in London asking a certain question. The reply came back an hour later to say that there were three in St. Peter Port but only one was recommended, and that I should find the uniform myself. The saucy lady also pointed out that I should not use said uniform for 'other purposes' which of course only made me think..... damnation, she really knew me too well!

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I paid a quick call to the reception desk to check one more thing, then had to wait only another hour and a quarter before the gentleman that I required arrived. I briefed him on what I needed and then John, Mr. Petrocelli and I adjourned to the suite of Mrs. Cassandra Newbury.

Mrs. Newbury was one of those tall, unpleasant women who seemed to think that enough perfume could hide their many failings, rather than just killing any potted plants in the vicinity. She even simpered at me, which nearly scuppered my plans for the evening as I felt a strong urge to run for it. Instead I pointedly placed John between myself and the menace. Mr. Newbury was in contrast one of those small and inconsequential husbands, and I thought back to the formidable Mrs. Maude Findlay's husband Walter. Some men were so whipped!

I whispered as much to John and got a suspicious look in return. I had no idea why.

“I am here in a private capacity”, I began, “concerning the unfortunate incident by the reception desk earlier this evening.”

“You mean the assault”, the harridan put in. “Everyone saw it!”

“I was in fact referring to the unfortunate incident that occurred immediately afterwards”, I said smoothly. “When you were sat in the alcove.”

She peered at me as if I were some form of alien life. Although she still managed a simper. Ugh!

“To what are you referring, sir?” she said haughtily.

I sighed and went to the door. Opening it I admitted a blond young bell-boy who looked nervously around at the opulence of the room. 

“Harry”, I smiled. “Thank you for coming, Please tell us again what you told me earlier.”

The boy gulped, clearly nervous.

“I was watering the plants like Mr. Johns told me”, he said, “and I saw this lady here sitting down in the alcove not far from the front desk. She had her maid with her – girl over there, it was – and they talked for a bit, then the lady gave the maid a green box and told her to hop it. Don't know why but the maid shoved it under her front before heading off; she were back in no time.”

Mrs. Newbury gasped in horror.

“He is lying!” she said roundly.

I turned slowly and focussed my gaze on the maid who was standing behind her mistress. The heat from the fire was intense, but it could not have accounted for that much redness of face.

“This must be Alice”, I said. “I would remind both her and you, madam, that an attempt to defraud your insurance company by pretending to have had your necklace stolen is an offence punishable by time in gaol – and, Alice, aiding and abetting that offence also attracts a significant penalty!”

The maid shuddered and looked appealingly at her mistress. 

“Madam?” she said nervously.

“Shut up, girl!” her mistress ordered. “Mr. Holmes, you are making this whole thing up!”

I smiled at her.

“We shall soon see”, I said. “There are four policemen outside madam, and they have the right to search this room from top to bottom....”

Aha! I had turned away from the maid but was still watching her out of the corner of my eye, and sure enough her eyes flashed nervously across to a small coffee-table which had a single drawer in it. There was no key but before Mrs. Newbury was into her first breath of objections I had forced it open and was able to extract a long, green jewel-case. Opening it I extracted an expensive and frankly rather gaudy pearl necklace.

“Cassie!” Mr. Newbury gasped.

“Oh shut up you silly old fool!” his wife snapped. “Like you are any help!”

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It was Mrs. Newbury and her maid who had the displeasure and discomfort of a cold night in the St. Peter Port police-station cells, while I declined the hotel's offer of an upgrade for our last night in favour of allowing Mr. Petrocelli and Mr. Ritter to experience the finer things in life for once. They both thanked me most sincerely for my help and we said goodbye when they alighted from the ferry at St. Helier on Jersey.

As things turned out the police decided not to press charges against Mrs. Newbury, but most unfortunately some horrible personage leaked the whole sordid story to the newspapers and they had to first leave Guernsey and then, when then London newspapers also 'found out' about their behaviour, to move to their estate in Ireland. As John would so rightly say, oh dear how sad never mind.

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_Notes:_   
_† Charles Prince of Wales learned of his father's beheading (1649) while on Jersey, and was proclaimed Charles the Second there. It took eleven years for him to make that title a reality, and one of the many men who he rewarded was Sir George Carteret who had helped him on the island. Carteret was granted a charter to found a new American colony which he called New Jersey._

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	5. Case 257: A Ridunian Riddle ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. The tiny island of Alderney with only one fair-sized village to its name hardly seems a hotbed of crime. But even here there are people who think that the law only applies to others – and there are policemen who make sure that they find out just how wrong they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Ridunia was (probably) the old Roman name for Alderney.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I do not know why, but some places that John and I visited just resonated with us. We had planned to spend just three days on the three square miles of Alderney but the island was so restful that three days quickly became two weeks, and June became July. If it had not been for the fact that living here would surely have necessitated a lot of journeys by water I would have listed it as a possibility for our retirement six years hence. We would surely have many adventures before then but I had to begin looking now, in case something promising came up.

Something had certainly come up in our last night on Jersey when, after the actor I had hired as the 'witness' bell-boy had departed, I had borrowed another bell-boy uniform and got John to dress up in it, and had then undressed him piece by delicious piece, making him come four times before he was naked. He had barely been able to stand on the quayside when we had said our farewells to Mr. Petrocelli and Mr. Ritter, and he had slept most of the thankfully calm boat ride here.

The 'capital' St. Anne was pretty much in the middle of Alderney with the harbour just north of it and views to the south coast as well (the island really was that small!). It looked the last sort of place to be troubled by any sort of crime which of course made me assume the worst, but it seemed that for once we might be lucky and would make it back to England with John looking so much better. He certainly was fitter; he had paid me back in spades for the bell-boy thing several times over since our arrival!

I was so damn lucky!

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St. Anne had one police-station with a sergeant and three constables, all of whom were to be seen around the island each day. I was quietly impressed that Sergeant George Dixon was among them; my police friends apart, far too many of the Metropolitan Police Service's senior officers seemed to think that promotion to sergeant meant an end to having to leave the office unless absolutely necessary (yes Sergeant Craig Whitefeather, I _am_ looking at your rotund figure!). LeStrade and Gregson in particular were still out and about despite being inspectors, even if by some strange contrivance of events quite a few of those journeys always happened to take them past 221B on every single one of Mrs. Malone's baking days! Hmm.

Talking of my two friends I was concerned that, shortly before we had left England, Sergeant Baldur had come round to alert me to the fact that one of the Service's superintendents was retiring earlier than expected so there would likely be a vacancy at chief-inspector level soon. We had navigated the choppy waters of the Great Cake-Detectors' (damn John, he had me doing it now!) near-simultaneous elevation to their current level, but I dreaded this new approaching hurdle as they would both be eligible to apply for the new post when it came up. On the other hand, the fact that they were now alternating those days when they dropped by and Mrs. Malone was giving whoever was not there an extra two slices each time (the additional one presumably for Mrs. LeStrade)... hmm again.

Sergeant Dixon had lived all his life on the island and had married the previous year. He was the proud father of a boy who bore his name and I thought should surely have been overjoyed to be an officer in such a place. Yet he rarely smiled, so being nosy I asked him why.

“It's my mother, sir”, he explained. “She lives in the East End of London, Dock Green to be exact, and she's not well. Father died last year and as there's only me I'll have to move there soon to keep an eye on her. I've put in my transfer and am just waiting for a vacancy to come up.”

“I am sure that you will find the East End very different from this place”, I said. To my surprise he shook his head.

“No, sir”, he said firmly. “Folks are the same everywhere. The outsides may change, but good is always good and bad is always bad.”

I thought about that, I supposed that he was right in a way. He looked at me curiously.

“You and the doctor might like to take a look at something odd that happened here last week”, he said. “I know who did it of course, but I think you might find it a challenge.”

“Go ahead”, I said confidently, “provided you tell me everything.”

“Not much to tell really”, he said, squinting to avoid the summer sun. “Old Mrs. Parsons at Rose Cottage overlooking the bay had her window smashed.”

I stared at him.

“That is it?” I asked incredulously.

“Thing is, no-one had any motive”, he said. “She's a bit of a Nosy Parker but that can't be a crime round here because we don't have enough cells! Some people say she's a witch because she wears black and has a black cat, but no-one's been turned into a frog as far as I know so I doubt that's it. And there's more than a few round here who'd deserve it!”

I thought about that.

“How was the window smashed?” I asked.

“A rock, sir”, he said. “Common enough; it likely came from her garden.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

 _”Likely_ came?” I pressed. He chuckled.

“She had a small pond where she'd been down to the beach and collected pebbles to fringe it”, he said. “Suppose someone could have picked one up from the beach and brought it there, but there seemed no point when were was several dozen there already.”

“No fingerprints, I suppose”, I asked hopefully.

“Only hers from when she picked it up”, he said.

I looked at him sharply. Too many meetings with a certain lounge-lizard of a brother who had recently written me a most amusing letter begging me to get Mother to let him off the rest of his translation work (I had had it framed before sending back that I was too busy) had made me wise to that sort of lying by omission. 

“You did not say that the assailant must have worn gloves”, I pointed out.

“That seemed obvious, sir”, he said.

“All right”, I said. “Moving on to the obvious question, _cui bono?_ Did anyone benefit from this crime?”

“Not really, sir”, he said. “The glazier, Mr. De La Rue, he repaired it for free as she's so poor. She had no insurance or anything and I suppose he got some good publicity out of it, but then he's the only glazier on the island.”

I had a sudden idea.

“Have you interviewed Mrs. Parsons since the attack?” I asked.

“Yes, as part of the inquiry”, he said. “She told me what I told you.”

I thought again. I could see this developing in one of two very different ways.

“Has Mrs. Parsons any relatives or friends on the island?” I asked.

“Her younger brother Martin, Mr. Sharpe”, he said. “Ten years younger. He's what they call slow; not quite with it all the time. Big bloke though.”

 _Useful_ , I thought.

“Your glazier”, I said. “What can you tell me about him?”

He looked at me and smiled, as if I were a pupil who had passed a difficult test. I suppose that I might have felt offended especially given that I was about ten years his senior, but I was enjoying this challenge.

“He's a pillar of the community, sir”, he said, “in the sense he's thick and doesn't get about much. His son Johnnie however – he's going to university in England next year and I won't be sorry to see the back of him. God alone knows how he got in because he's thicker than his father, and so credulous that you could see him Fort Albert for cash.”

I smiled. I finally saw where this was heading.

“Mrs. Parsons will be all right?” I asked. He nodded.

“Martin will see to that”, he said. “I'll be around in the unlikely event young Johnnie has any company, though I doubt that. He won't want his equally useless friends on this one!”

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John scowled as he pounded into me again. He really believed that he could somehow fuck what I knew out of me, whereas if he had thought for a moment he would have realized that the threat of withholding sex would have been a far greater threat. I prayed that he never worked that one out, although as he found my prostate yet again there did not seem any immediate prospect of that happening.

“In a small place like this a little thing can be important”, I said. “Many major criminals start out small and gravitate to larger things later.”

He thrust his own larger thing into me again and I moaned pleasurably.

“Harder!”

“You _will_ tell me!” he muttered crossly. “You _will!”_

I would not, but I had no objections to his keeping on trying.

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Th following day I met Sergeant Dixon outside the newspaper shop in town. I gestured to the headline in display. 

“It seems that your cells have a new occupant”, I said. “One rather battered Mr. John de La Rue, captured while trying to break into Mrs. Parsons's house last night. Unfortunately her brother was sleeping there and was not best pleased to be woken up.”

“Burglars who get caught must pay the price for breaking and entering, sir”, he said with a smile. “Perils of the job.”

“Indeed”, I said. “I also see that his father has questions to answer as well, after a police search of his house found a document from Mrs. Parsons's late father telling her to move the chest of gold coins he had salvaged from a wreck all those years ago as the chimney breast was not really a safe place.”

“Wise advice”, the sergeant said. 

“Young Mr. De La Rue has admitted that he heard rumours of the gold and deliberately broke Mrs. Parsons's window so his father could gain access to the cottage”, I said, looking hard at him.

“Some people will believe anything”, the sergeant said far too innocently.

“Especially if the right rumours are put round to the right people”, I said.

He just looked at me. Like the formidable Miss Viola Palliser this was someone else who I was more than glad to have on the right side of the law. He would have been a formidable opponent otherwise.

“I dare say there's thousands of broken windows in Dock Green, sir”, he said. “But with police work, you start with what you start with. One broken window here is one too many; not crack down on it and like up there it'll spread.”

“Country areas are rather different”, I agreed.

“Not that different”, he smiled as I saw John emerging from the hotel and moving rather gingerly the few dozen yards down the street to join us. “A uniform can make a difference sometimes, though – _policeman's or bell-boy's!”_

I stared at him in horror. I had disposed of that thing way back in St. Helier! He grinned at us both.

“Evening, all!”

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I said that we extended our stay in Alderney from a few days to two whole weeks, but two days before we were due to leave there was a sudden change of plans. There was a storm in the English Channel so I was glad that it was forecast to be past us for our departure. However that day we received a telegram from London.

“It is from Lowen”, I said. “He says that he heard we are headed to his home county and asks if we might call in on his brother who lives in St. Ives. The fellow wishes to come to London for a time but apparently there are 'problems'.

I would not have needed to have been a detective of any calibre to sense my love's sudden unease. Although the affable young Cornishman had helped saved my life one time during my long battle with vile Moriarty, he had that habit of leering at me whenever he or one of his 'boys' with him came round for treatment, and John was always uneasy in the presence of a handsome younger man. It always drove him beyond his usual reserve as he re-staked his claim on me and I loved that, such that I may have paid for Lowen to come round arguably more often than was strictly needed. On the odd occasion. Or seven.

“He says that this 'Hedrek' lives in St. Ives”, I said, not smiling at his sudden pout. “That is close to Penzance so not far from Land's End, which I know you wish to see. He does not say that the matter is urgent so we can wait for this storm to pass.”

“That is good”, he said. 

“The ferry from Southampton calls in here twice a week", I said, "so we can take it as planned then take a train to Salisbury and head west from there. We have not had sex on a train for far too long, it seems!”

And there was the rapid breathing. I was so bad to him!

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	6. Interlude: Sympathy For The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. There is a surprise for Sherlock and John in Southampton, Hampshire.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I would not have gotten far in life had I not learned to cover even the most unlikely eventualities, so I had had my cousin Luke check around to make sure that none of the late Alistair Campbell's acquaintances – he surely could not have had any friends – might have taken exception to my finally making him do something useful in his life and become fish food. I was wary when Luke asked to meet me and John when we reached Southampton West Station†; we both feared there was the awful prospect that my Mother might be using him to send me one of her terrible scripts, and she was last reported to be working on a story about a spiritual wise-man who gave out rather more the words of advice – 'Fool On The Hill', that was it.

The good news was that my cousin was seemingly unarmed. The bad news was that he was also asleep in the station waiting room when we arrived. And from the size of John's pout, he was not alone.

"Benji!" I smiled. "What brings you away from the big city?"

"Mr. Lucifer sir, he asked me to come with him", Benji said, leering at me in a way that seemed to make John cough for some reason. "He had some papers for you, sir; nothing urgent he said but he thought you'd better have them. Also your mother asked him to come check up on you."

"Bertha?" I asked.

"Gave birth to a girl at the start of the month", he grinned. "We're calling her Rose. Fourteen times blessed now!"

From the look of him, he was not the only one who had been 'blessed' by the new arrival. My cousin was snoring gently; I prodded him awake and earned myself a glare.

"No problems", Luke yawned, glaring at me, "except that _someone_ had to celebrate his latest happy event. I am getting too old for this!"

"Hope not, sir", Benji said cheerfully. "Bet says she wants to make it a round twenty!"

My cousin looked horrified!

"And that sounds like our train", I grinned. "Do try to leave him in one peace on the way back to London, Benji."

"Why?" the behemoth grinned. "Didn't you tell me once that that was what private compartments were for, sir?"

My cousin whimpered in terror. I had absolutely no sympathy; he had made his bed and now he had to be fucked silly in it. Or at least in his railway compartment – and it was a long, long cab ride from Waterloo to his home!

Sympathy? Not a chance!

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_Notes:_  
_† Opened three years back to replace the small Southampton West End Station which lay between it and the nearby tunnel. It is now called Southampton Central, and a monument to both concrete manufacturers and architects who have too many of the funny mushrooms._

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	7. Case 258: The Adventure Of Hedrek's Divagation ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. In the second part of his recovery after the disposal of the murderous Alistair Campbell, Sherlock takes John to beautiful Cornwall (good) where the doctor immediately runs into the bane of his existence (not so good). Mr. Laurence Trevelyan is wondering why his brother keeps slipping away after his fishing-trips before going home to his wife – what is his secret?   
> The answer comes with strings attached.

_[Narration by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire]_

There was no doubt about it; Doctor Watson was going to murder me one of these days. The murderous look that I got when I met him and Mr. Holmes at the North Road Station in Plymouth suggested that he was already lining up a number of different methods...

“It was very good of Sweyn to let Lowen come all this way to help us”, Mr. Holmes said with false brightness, “even if it is for a family member. Was it not, John?”

“Hmm.”

I made sure to keep Mr. Holmes between me and that look. Because I knew full well that for the clearly not jealous doctor, things were unlikely to get any better. And I quite liked living!

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We Cornish are a proud race, but even we have our differences. The far east of the county, which was the first to fall to the invading West Saxons and only rejoined to the county after the final conquest in the tenth century, is different from the bulk of the county, and my native Penwith, the westernmost part of the mainland around St. Ives and Penzance, is different again. That meant a journey across the whole of Cornubia with a certain doctor glowering at me all the way.

I may have smiled at Mr. Holmes on just the odd occasion. Or five.

“Tell us about your brother, Lowen”, Mr. Holmes said after a while.

I noted that as always his use of my old name clearly irked the doctor. I was grateful that he did not have his bag with him as he would surely have been looking through it for something to use on me but thankfully that was far away in Baker Street – a Baker Street that I might need to be treated in one day.

In truth there was rather more to Sweyn allowing me to visit my home county than just the chance to see my next brother down, welcome as that was. Some little time back a striking handsome fellow called Mr. Salerio Palazzi had started at one of the molly-houses under my control and.... it is true what they say about Italian men! He was beautiful not just outside but in, and I may have gone to a quiet room for some creative swearing when I had found out that he was married. Worse, he admitted to me that it was an unhappy marriage but that he needed it to stay in England. I had had to settle for just looking without touching; it will likely seem strange that someone who sold his body for a living should have scruples but sometimes the Lord moved in mysterious ways.

I just wished that He had moved in some other way.

“Hedrek is three years my junior and lives as I said in St. Ives”, I said. “He is very different from me; a huge bear of a fellow but very friendly. He was lucky to marry Jane a few years back; they have one son with another child on the way.”

“Why do you say he was lucky?” the doctor asked suspiciously.

“Is not any man who finds true love lucky?” I smiled, shooting a leer at Mr. Holmes that elicited an unhappy rumble from his friend. “It is difficult to explain, but Hedrek is..... I do not like to say simple because he is quite intelligent, but he takes a simple approach to life. He thinks the best of people and in this world that is not always a good thing, although his size prevents most from taking advantage of him, and for all she is so small Jane is a firecracker who even I have learned to respect.”

“So what is his problem, Lowen?” Mr. Holmes asked.

Another unhappy growl. It was getting ever harder not to smile.

“He wishes to come to London”, I said, “where he wants to work for Sweyn for a year. As you know the money is very good, and all he has in Cornwall now is working on a boat which Jane does not like because of the risk, especially now they have started a family. I think he would do well.”

Mr. Holmes looked at me shrewdly. I sighed; I should have known better than to try to leave anything out.

“Jane mentioned that she was worried about him in some way”, I admitted. “On a couple of occasions his boat came back in but he did not immediately come home as he always had done up until then. It cannot be anything like that because he is one of the most faithful men in Cornwall, possibly even England.”

“Possibly coercion”, Mr. Holmes said. “Some men find the strangest things difficult to convey to their loved ones. Indeed, I know of one not far from here who cannot even say a certain word, and always uses the euphemism of 'manly embracing' when he requires it.”

I would have laughed at the doctor's blush, but this was someone who would likely be treating me for injuries in the near future. So I excused myself to use the facilities and laughed there. Because I was considerate like that.

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I had first met Mr. Holmes about two decades back when a case had brought him to the Scilly Islands, the westernmost part of Cornubia. I had been smitten as only a foolish kern of eighteen can be, and the world had seemed bitterly unfair in that just moments later I saw him looking at the sulky fellow next to him like the sun shone out of his backside. I had spent much of my young life on the islands but, before coming up to London, I had spent some time in St. Ives with Hedrek as he was the brother I was closest to, even if physically we could barely have been more different.

I think that both Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson finally realized that when we met Hedrek. He was both taller and broader than me, still with that faintly detached look about him but happy that I had come to see him. He rushed over and tried to suffocate me as per usual, then let me go and promptly tried to do the same to Mr. Holmes who, I noticed, did not exactly struggle to get away. He might even have tried the same on Doctor Watson but I think that even his head in the clouds could pick up the murderous vibes that were being transmitted from that gentleman and he merely nodded at the fellow. 

“No Jane?” I asked, surprised. He scowled.

“She's with the demon spawn”, he said sourly.

I smiled at my fellow visitors' confusion.

“Jane is a lovely lady”, I said, “but her mother and father both utterly detest Hedrek because they have no taste and even less manners. They wanted their only daughter to make what they considered a much more prestigious match with a rich local landowner but she refused, and told them that if they tried to make her then their choice of husband would not be getting sons off her or any woman!”

“She sounds a most formidable lady”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Mr. Trevelyan, your brother tells me that your wife is concerned about your recent visits to a certain place in the area after certain fishing-trips.”

I looked at Mr. Holmes in surprise. Then at my brother who had gone bright red. He looked warily at me.

“Low would tease me”, he muttered, sounding almost sulky.

I thought that I most certainly would not, as I knew that like the fiery Blaze he too had a temper on him. I had only ever heard of it being used once, when a local lad had decided to try to chat up Jane shortly before their marriage. When the idiot had proved incapable of understanding her request to go forth and multiply, Hedrek had made the point by picking him up and bodily throwing him into the nearby harbour. I was sure – fairly sure – that he would not do that to his own kin, but I had no wish to test that theory.

“Would you like to tell just me?” Mr. Holmes said gently.

I was surprised when my brother actually nodded, then realized with alarm that that would mean I would have to go somewhere with just Doctor Watson for company. Ugh!

“I can take the doctor around our church”, I offered, thinking that at least I might be safe there as it was holy ground. Or at least they would not have to travel far to bury my body.

Hedrek nodded eagerly and we left.

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Fortunately I only had about half an hour of the doctor's baleful presence before Mr. Holmes rejoined us.

“No Hedrek?” I asked.

“He has gone back to wait for his beloved wife”, he said with a smile. “He told me where he has been going after his fishing-trips recently. It was.... unusual and I can see why he was a shade embarrassed by it, but then some men are by the strangest of things.”

The doctor went red for some reason. I tried not to smile. I really did!

“What was it?” I asked.

“He said that your late mother played the harp”, Mr. Holmes said.

I stared at him in confusion. What had that to do with anything?

“Yes”, I said. “The Welsh harp; the triple one. As I told you, this area was once called West Wales.”

“Some time back, Hedrek was returning home when he chanced to go by the music-shop”, Mr. Holmes said. “He saw that they had such an instrument in their window and went in to take a closer look at it. Naturally he could not afford it but the shop-owner let him try it out. It turned out that he had a natural gift for playing it, so he has been slipping away there after his fishing-trips.”

I smiled at that. Hedrek was a lovely fellow but very easily embarrassed; I could see now why he had not wanted to admit such an unmanly thing to Jane.

“I have told him that when he comes to London, I know a place where they make harps”, Mr. Holmes said. “I did a small favour for the factory owner one time and he would I am sure be happy to let Hedrek spend his free time playing an instrument.”

“It seems an odd thing to get embarrassed about”, the doctor said uncertainly.

“Well, that is Man for you”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Some people get a great deal of joy out of _playing an instrument.”_

Somehow he managed to drop his tone in this last three words, and the meaningful look that he gave the doctor had the fellow shuddering. I suspected that someone was about to be 'played' very hard indeed!

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I left a much happier Hedrek and headed back to London, but not before shaking Mr. Holmes's hand for maybe a fraction of time longer than was socially acceptable. I got a scowl from what was left of Doctor Watson, but thankfully he was in too poor a state to do much more.

Oh well, back to London and selling my body for a living. And Sal, a beautiful man that I could never have. Damnation!

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	8. Case 259: The Adventure Of The Cancelled Booking ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. In rural north Cornwall Sherlock catches out a hotel-owner in a lie. But then business is business and that is the way of the world – or is it?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

We had left St. Ives, where Sherlock had solved the case of an annoying Cornish ex-fisherman's brother who was embarrassed because he liked to slip away and play on an instrument. I was certainly played by Sherlock; I had not seen much of the small town as I spent most of our three days there lying broken and exhausted, face-down in my pillow. 

God but it was _glorious!_

Unfortunately Sherlock had insisted on saying our farewells to Mr. Hedrek Trevelyan, who again hugged him for no good reason. Worse, the fellow's wife Jane simpered at my man. The only bright side was that the fellow's annoying brother had gone back to London; his brother would be joining him next week. The ex-fisherman may have helped save Sherlock's life the once but the young rogue was round to Baker Street far too often in my opinion, either needing treatment for some injury of his own or escorting one of his fellow molly-men, and either way leering at _my_ Sherlock! I would have glared at him as he was leaving but facial expressions were a bit beyond me just then.

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I was pleased when Sherlock told me that we would be headed for one of the two famous 'ends' of the British mainland, Land's End and John o' Groats. Coincidentally we would see the latter the following year when a case would take us all the way to Caithness, but for now it was a slightly shorter journey to the most south-westerly part of England (the Lizard, where we had solved the 'Sophy Anderson' case, is of course the most southerly part of the British mainland). Wherever the end really was, I enjoyed standing there knowing that three thousand miles of empty ocean lay between me and the New World. And here stood I, happy and with my man at my side, his arms wrapped around me and holding me close so he could.....

I would have tried to glare at him as I staggered off the stony beach, but that would have taken an effort. Fortunately we had got there early, so even though it was early July the place was deserted.

“I cannot believe that you did that!” I managed eventually. “Jerking me off without warning.”

“Look on the bright side”, he said cheerily.

 _”What_ bright side?” I asked.

“When we do it again at John o' Groats, you will not be surprised!”

Horny bastard! Honestly, sometimes I wondered why I put up with him.

All right, because I loved him. Stupid question, I know.

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We returned to Penzance where I enjoyed touring around St. Michael's Mount, then began to make our way back eastwards. I was not particularly enamoured of either Camborne or Redruth, which seemed rather too industrialized, and knowing from one of my more garrulous patients that Falmouth was not particularly interesting we adhered to the north coast as we made for Newquay. I found the little resort of St. Agnes appealing and we spent a day just idling there before moving onto nearby Perranporth where.... well, it all started with the Seafront Hotel.

The hotel seemed ideally placed, overlooking some gorgeous golden sands. Even given that it was July it was clearly popular, and when the lady receptionist (who simpered at me in a way that had John rolling his eyes!) checked her rooms, her face fell.

“I am afraid that we are fully-booked up, Mr. Holmes sir”, she said apologetically. “It is high season, you see.”

I had noted in the local newspaper back in Penzance that our presence in the area had been noted. I suppose that it was unreasonable to expect fame to bring rewards as such but....

“Don't be so stupid, Tilly!” a large fellow said, sailing in behind the counter (I use that term because he was built like an ocean liner). “John Bayliss; I own this place. I told you earlier that the Coopers had cancelled girl; why did you not remove their name from the lists?”

The girl blushed awkwardly, and Sherlock stared sharply at them both. I had the same feeling; years of dealing with less than fully honest patients (as well as insufferable lounge-lizards who had better not be around any time soon unless they wanted a backside full of grape-shot) told me too that something was up here.

“You do have a room?” Sherlock asked.

“A family one, yes”, the fellow said. “They were coming down from London but they cancelled. No reason given but that's folks for you these days.”

Sherlock looked at him appraisingly.

“Can you keep the room for us for half an hour?” he asked. “I have someone who I simply must call on immediately, and I do not want to check in just in case they have made other arrangements. I doubt that they have but I would not wish to risk it. They are.... Important, you see.”

I could sense that something was wrong here, as I saw no reason for any delay let alone that I could not think who Sherlock might know somewhere as remote as this. However I said nothing.

“Of course, sir”, the fellow said. 

“May I borrow Tilly to show me the way?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, go with the gentlemen”, Mr. Bayliss said.

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“Now Tilly”, Sherlock said once we were outside, “we do not have long. You clearly knew that something was amiss in there and I wish to know what it is.”

She reddened.

“Mr. Bayliss would sack me if he thought I told you, sir”, she said miserably. “But it's just plain wrong. The Coopers have been coming down here every year for their holiday with their kids, and they haven't cancelled. He's done this sort of thing before; he'll tell them that someone wired and cancelled in their name just so he can have a famous gentleman like yourself staying there.”

“We shall regretfully still have to stay there then”, Sherlock said, “at least for a night as otherwise he would come to suspect something. Which hotel would most likely have vacancies, do you think Tilly?”

“Definitely the Grand, sir”, she said firmly. “Most expensive one in the village and right on the seafront. They charge the earth but they're good.”

“When the Coopers do come, I wish for you to direct them there”, Sherlock said. “How long do they stay with you as a rule?”

“Always a full week, sir”, she said.

“Then I shall book them in to the Grand for a week”, Sherlock said. “You can tell your unpleasant employer that I was asking you about that place because I was meeting someone Important there. Thank you.”

He gave her a coin which had her wide-eyed in shock before she scurried back inside her hotel. He looked after her thoughtfully.

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“That is just wrong!” I said firmly as we walked down to the main seafront. “Throwing some people out of their room because he wants someone famous for the publicity.”

“It is”, he said, “and as I said, for Tilly's sake we shall have to spend tonight there. But in so doing I will bring a whole host of problems for the unpleasant Mr. Bayliss. Which he will fully deserve!”

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A few hours after our arrival back at the Seafront Hotel, Tilly managed to slip a note under our door. As expected the Coopers had arrived and been rebuffed, and she had managed to let them know to go to the 'Grand'. Fortunately she had also had a break that afternoon so had been able to go down and check that they were there, and had reported to us that all was well. I smiled and looked at my watch; Sherlock had explained his plan to me and I had whole-heartedly approved. Thankfully the Coopers had arrived on the earlier train so there would be time for what he had planned to reach the evening newspapers copies of which some generous person had arranged to be sent free to every person in this hotel.

The commotion began over a disappointing dinner, as guest after guest read the shocking headlines. The famous London hotel critic Mr. Kevin Adams had been on holiday in Cornwall when his reservation had been cancelled, and he had quickly established that this had been done at the hotel-owner's behest because someone famous was in the area and had asked for a room. Mr. Adams, who had been travelling with his family _incognito_ as Mr. Adam Cooper, had been furious, and by questioning the staff had learned that they had all been threatened not to reveal the truth. The guests were understandably disgusted and once they had eaten they made their way to the desk to first complain and then demand their money back.

It was also fortunate that the obvious problem of Tilly had been solved with minimal effort, as during our short visit to the Grand we had learned that they needed a maid, and knowing that Mr. Bayliss was the sort who would likely try to take revenge somewhere down the line Sherlock had had no hesitation in recommending her. 

After finishing our own food we went to see the manager in his office where he was not hiding from his angry guests. With the door locked.

“This is terrible!” he moaned. “You deal with problems, Mr. Holmes. You have to help me!”

“This article says that you deliberately threw a family out because you wished to be able to claim that the doctor and I stayed here”, Sherlock said coldly. “Is this true?”

“No!” he lied.

“Do not try semantics with me, sir!” my friend shot back at him. “Cancelling their reservation is the same as throwing them out, as well you know. Now, there are a whole lot of angry people out there, and given what the newspapers are saying about you they all want refunds.”

“That will ruin me!” he moaned.

“Mr. Adams notes that you are extremely wealthy”, Sherlock said, “so I doubt that very much. If you wish this problem to go away, then you are going to have to pay for it. A full refund for any guest who wishes to leave, plus you will pay for them to stay elsewhere if that costs extra. I looked through your guest lists and you have some twenty guests booked in for a total of just under one hundred and fifty days in this village. At a little under one pound† per person per night that will cost you about two hundred pounds....”

 _“How much?”_ he gasped in horror.

“Better that than the ruination of your business”, my friend said. “One more thing, sir. Mr. Adams is understandably annoyed at the way in which he was treated, and he has a brother in service. He has instructed me to tell you that he will be keeping an eye on this place in the future, and if you take any action against any of your staff to make up for your own abject failings as a human being, then he will have his friends in the newspaper business institute a full search into every financial dealing that you have ever made. And he will have the full results published in his newspaper!”

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Mr. Bayliss had to pay for everyone to finish their holidays at the 'Grand', who were understandably delighted with all the extra custom. Tilly quit her old post and started there, where she later rose to become the manageress. Sherlock and I also went there for the rest of our stay and had the best room in the hotel, which he used for several very happy days in which I saw very little of Perranporth and did not at all moan about sex-crazed consulting detectives who fucked me while wearing only a deer-stalker hat. Seriously, this was my life?

I loved it!

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_Notes:_  
_† About £110 or $135 at 2020 prices._

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	9. Case 260: King Arthur's Hardest Day ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. It is on to Tintagel, possible site of the famous Camelot. Also a chance to do another favour for another friend of the inimitable Miss St. Leger, helping a young fellow who had thought to have landed the ideal job before it had turned sour. Fortunately Sherlock is able to use some 'underhand' tactics to put things right.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

We left Perranporth in a train that John complained was unusually bumpy, where his abused backside complained at every jolt and I did not smirk at him from across the compartment just because I was the one who had reduced him to this state.

I did not smirk. It was a contented smile.

We both found Newquay disappointing, a town that seemed to have gotten above itself with the holiday trade and had little to recommend it. Because of the layout of the Cornish railway network we took a carriage to Padstow further along the coast, as the railway would have involved two changes and over three times the mileage. This place was much better, and I also liked both Wadebridge and Bodmin further inland. Then we resumed the coast at Port Isaac, a charming little village that was most welcoming. 

I was not the least bit surprised when a telegram from Miss St. Leger reached us in this remote locale. Disturbed maybe, but not surprised even if it arrived less than thirty minutes after we did. That her request concerned our next stop was also vaguely worrying.

“She asks us to help out a friend of hers in the area”, I said. “Mr. Guard; I remember that he used to work for her for a time but then his mother fell ill and he came home to Cornwall. He lives in Boscastle further along the coast but works in Tintagel where, she says, he dresses up for a living.”

John raised an eyebrow at me in surprise.

“An odd way to make a living”, he said.

“I can think of several costumes that I would like to see you in”, I smiled. “Briefly of course, before I got to take you out of them piece by delicious piece!”

There went the fast breathing! He glared at me.

“You are so bad!” he grumbled.

“I intend to be”, I smiled. “Let you feel the length of my lance-a-lot!”

All right, I admit that that deserved an eye-roll. Even if I proved myself very swiftly right!

Twice!

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Mr. Jay Guard had come to London aged just eighteen, the same month in 'Ninety-Four that I had returned from the dead, and as a fellow Cornishman Lowen had found him a place at the molly-houses. I had wondered at one point if there might have been anything between the two exiles but apparently not, and at Lowen's request I had got Jay a position taking messages for Miss St. Leger (John had not pouted at all at that, or so he had claimed!). Last year however Jay had had to return home when his mother had fallen ill, and after her passing he had inherited her house and stayed on in his home county. Miss St. Leger had somehow contrived to find him a job working for the people who ran the ruined castle at Tintagel in which he dressed up, coincidentally as Sir Lancelot. It seemed an odd way to make a living but, she explained, many people were prepared to pay handsomely to be photographed with the legendary King Arthur and his most famous knight at the original Camelot.

“Is it the original Camelot, do you think?” I asked John as our cab took us down into Tintagel. The nearest railway station had been a couple of miles away in Delabole and this place was certainly impressive, the ruins of the castle standing on two cliffs clearly having been rent apart by a narrow channel spanned by a wooden footbridge. 

He shook his head.

“Probably not, much as we might wish it”, he said. “We think that King Arthur was real but he was most likely a mercenary who fought for the Celts against the Saxons. What little we know of him points more towards a northern fellow than a western one, possibly even based in my native Northumberland. He was certainly not a medieval knight; that image came about because of the revival of interest in him in the twelfth century.”

“Yet history is what people believe, so what people believe is history”, I smiled. 

“If it does no harm I see nothing wrong in it”, he said. “People who are prepared to pay for what they want is all right, especially if it helps others to make a living.”

“Funnily enough that is exactly what Lowen says about his work”, I smiled.

And there was the Official Pout of Displeasure! I was so bad to him!

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We found a good hotel where, fortunately, the hotel owner Mrs. Jones (who looked at me in a way that John clearly disapproved of) told us that we should head to the building next door but one to find Mr. Guard. This turned out to be a mock recreation of a medieval castle, and the fellow at the door told us that our quarry was currently in a photographic session but would be going on his break when he was done. Sure enough some ten minutes later we were joined by the man himself.

I had had Miss St. Leger make a covert check, and I had not been the least but surprised to find that this young fellow now some twenty-two years of age was a distant relation of my 'other' family the Hawkes, and hence of myself. He was in fact my fifth cousin, our common ancestor being the luckless Lord Paul Hawke who had been the eldest son of the third Lord Hawke, Stephen, but who had died in a hunting-accident before he could accede to the title. This had turned out to be something of a blessing for my family (if not for him) in that his son Lord Harry became one of the most successful lords despite succeeding to the title at the age of eleven.

The reason that I had asked Miss St. Leger to make those inquiries was that despite the differences in appearance, Mr. Guard had the same inherent goodness that I had once seen in my ill-starred half-brother Lord Tobias Hawke and later in the latter's son Lord Harry. Hence I felt an especial obligation to this fellow even if he could not know that we were related.

“It is good of Clemmie to still think of me”, the young man smiled. “And before you say it, I would never call her that to her face – which is why I still have all my limbs attached!”

I smiled at his astute observation.

“What is the problem here?” I asked.

“King Arthur”, he sighed. “When I got here they had a fellow called Todd who was stand-offish but all right, and we got on well enough. But then he moved away and they brought in James. _He is completely insufferable!_ I know that he is good-looking but he is so far up himself that no-one can stand the fellow. Worse, I have to work with him more than most!”

“Do you like your job?” John asked.

“I did”, Mr. Guard sighed, “until James came along. The annoying thing is that he can be a charming fellow with the paying public; he has even had people come back and be photographed with him again. And he is great with the children. He just looks down on the rest of us as supporting actors.”

I shook my head at him.

“What else?” I pressed.

John looked at me in surprise, but Mr. Guard blushed.

“All right” he sighed. “It did not take him long to figure me out, and he 'most graciously' said that he might consider fucking me one day if I paid him enough. I said that I would rather throw myself off the castle cliff, and he has been sniping at me ever since.”

“I think that we can help you”, I smiled. “Tell me more about these photographs that you have to pose for.”

“That I quite enjoy”, he said, “or would if it was not for the Royal Pest. Luckily everyone expects Sir Lancelot to be severe and knightly, and as I am sure you know it is easier to hold that sort of pose than the smiling one James has to do with his guests. We had a party of ladies down from London recently and he charmed them as per usual. Folks are strange!”

“Very true”, I agreed. “Does this 'James' live alone?”

“His family owns this place”, Mr. Guard said, “which was why he got the job when Todd went off to London. He was just back from university at the time; Oxford _of course!”_

I thought that it was nearly a quarter of a century since I had first met John at Bargate, long gone and not missed in the least. Time passed so quickly and I had wasted so much of it. At least I had John now – or would very soon!

“I shall put some arrangements in place tonight”, I said, “and if all goes well I shall be able to speak with you tomorrow about taking this bumptious fellow down a peg or two.”

“That I would greatly enjoy, sir!”

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That evening we enjoyed a quiet meal in town before decamping to our room, where I reduced one English city doctor to a quivering wreck. It was arguably wrong of me to keep doing it until he passed out, but he had several signs that he could give me (verbal and non-verbal) to stop, and he was still smiling as he slept so he was apparently fine with it. I slipped out to do my evening's work.

The next morning we spent exploring the castle ruins, which really were quite impressive. Then after lunch we adjourned to the photography place where we met Mr. Guard. He looked if anything even less happier than the previous day.

“James is 'claiming' that someone broke in here and stole all his underwear”, he sighed. “So naturally he is not wearing any today, and he had to make a point of getting into his kit while flashing his arse at me. Honestly!”

I smiled knowingly.

“I have hired the services of your photographer for this afternoon”, I said, “as I wanted some pictures of heroes ancient and modern around the famous Round Table” (I ignored the eye-roll from someone who apparently did not wish to sit down any time before Paddington). “King Arthur sat with John and I either side of him.”

“Not me, sir?” Mr. Guard asked, surprised.

“Yes and no”, I smiled. “You will not be in the picture as such – but I do need you to play a part.....”

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Mr. James Bradley was very much as Mr. Guard had described him, an affable young fellow to visitors and the same age as his co-worker but with a definite air of his own consequence. As had so many who I encountered in life, before but rarely after meeting me. He was delighted with the opportunity to be photographed with two famous gentlemen, and we positioned ourselves with him sat in his chair and John and I either side of him.”

“Should I be this far under the table?” Mr. Bradley queried?

“I wish for the upper bodies only in my first three pictures”, I said. “I know that they can develop copies from the negatives but that takes time, although I have told your parents that they can use one of those for publicity purposes.”

“That is very good of you, sir”, Mr. Bradley said. 

I smiled. He was about to discover just how far from good I was; I knew that his parents had impressed on him just how important this shoot was and that he must not mess it up. Which request he was about to find ever so slightly difficult.

John and I each leaned on one side of the ridiculously tall 'throne' in which Mr. Bradley was sat, and the photographer told us that he was ready to take the first shot. I knew exactly when Mr. Bradley realized what was afoot for he visibly shuddered.

“Problems?” I asked innocently.

Mr. Smith the photographer looked out from behind his camera at the young man. Mr. Bradley blushed and shook his head.

“No”, he said, his voice suddenly rather high. “Just a cramp.”

I knew full well it was less 'just a cramp' and more 'Mr. Guard under the table doing things that were doubtless making Mr. Bradley realize too late that the disappearance of all his underwear that morning had _not_ been a coincidence. 

“Keep still, James”, Mr. Smith said reprovingly. “You are not usually so fidgety.”

“I am _trying!”_ Mr. Bradley said. “Oh!”

That had to be just when Mr. Guard was starting to suck him off. I had expected rather more than just an 'oh'. The fellow was good, but then he would have to be.

“I said look regal”, the photographer said crossly. “Not constipated!”

Mr. Bradley tried to shuffle his chair backwards but the combined weight of two grown men leaning on it made that impossible. He was now visibly sweating.

“Finally done the first one”, the photographer sighed. “Two to go. You can relax for a moment, gentlemen.”

Mr. James looked far from relaxed. He looked around nervously and caught my eye. It took a time but he got there eventually.

 _“You set this up!”_ he hissed in a low voice.

“You annoyed my friend!” I shot back. “Now sit there and take your medicine like a man!”

He managed a small whine before the photographer called us to be ready for the second shot. The one that I was going to give to Mr. Guard who, any moment, would be starting on this fellow's balls.....

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Later that evening we called in on Mr. Guard at his home in nearby Boscastle. He smiled when he saw us.

“It worked?” I asked.

“More than I could have hoped”, he grinned. 

There was something odd about that look. I wondered...

A dishevelled and barely dressed Mr. Bradley appeared behind him, blushing when he saw us.

“All right”, he conceded, “I had that coming. But seriously, have you any idea how much I suffered this afternoon?”

I handed Mr. Guard the picture, noting his 'friend's horrified look as I did so.

“Now you have a memory for all time!” I grinned. “Not to worry if you lose it, sir – I will have the original in London!”

Mr. Bradley groaned but a kiss from his first knight seemingly resigned him to his fate, and Mr. Guard thanked us again before we left him.

I definitely heard a rather un-kingly yelp from behind the door!

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	10. Interlude: Immortalized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1898\. Little brothers were created for a reason – to be annoying!

_[Narration by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire]_

It was the end of July and I was safely back in London, where I had been joined by Hedrek. Sweyn, bless the fellow, had agreed that as he would only be here for a year he could have one of the spare rooms at the house where I was based which meant that I could keep an eye on him as well as allowing him to make a lot more money to take back home to Jane. And even better, despite still being down in Cornubia Mr. Holmes had arranged with a friend of his who owned a music-shop that Hedrek could stop by there and play their harps from time to time. What with that and his huge form having already won him several steady clients, everything was working out fine.

“Not that fine”, Hedrek said as he sat down with me one morning. “I saw the way you were looking at Sal the other day, Low. First Mr. Holmes and now him; you really know how to pick them!”

I scowled at his astute and maybe just perhaps arguably correct observation. 

“Sal is married”, I said, “and Mr. Holmes is as good as. Besides Doctor Watson treats me sometimes, and I value my life!”

“Is that why his friend pays you to go round and make him jealous?” snipped a big little brother that I was rapidly going off.

“The doctor is the typical reserved Englishman”, I said, “except when he feels threatened. Benji and I made sure that is what he feels. Besides, Mr. Holmes does not pay us that much.”

“Perhaps he might invite me round for a change?” the bastard suggested.

I glared at him. The very idea!

“You are happily married”, I said testily, “unlike poor Sal. Leave well alone!”

“Mr. Holmes was very understanding over my music”, said the pest. “And afterwards he hugged me just because I was feeling bad.”

I glared at him even more. Why did I have three little brothers from hell all of whom were bigger than me and worse, my only big brother was Blaze who would kill me if I tried anything? Life was unfair!

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All right, I suppose I that liked Hedrek really. And later when Mr. Holmes had returned to London, he arranged for the hulking nuisance to achieve a sort of immortality when he had his harp-playing recorded for all time. Plus the money that he got from his recordings enabled him to buy Jane a lovely bracelet (I was sure that Mr. Holmes helped with that too). 

He was still an annoying big little brother, though!

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End file.
